Across the moor
by Qalam
Summary: AU fic. Inspired by the BBC's 2002 production of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Written from Holmes' POV, and deals with his pursuit of Stapleton. Gen.


**Hi! So this is a AU fic, based partly of the BBC production Hound of the Baskervilles (2002), and with details from canon.**

**It's in Holmes' POV, which I was a teeny bit unsure about writing in, so feedback would be nice! =)**

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The shot rang out, ricocheted in the emptiness. I stumbled, waited for the almost familiar searing pain - but nothing. A miss.

The silhouette I pursued across the moor had the advantage of me in that he was more familiar with the moors than I; and I knew it was only a matter of time until he hit his mark, struck fool's gold.

But I could do nothing about that, save pray to the good Providence that Stapleton's ammunition would run out before long.

The distance between us decreased as my quarry flagged and the shots came to a halt although Stapleton still had lead enough for his aims.

For if despite the descending fog, my sense of direction was to be trusted, he was leading me towards the Grimpen Mire.

My surmise was proved correct but the fog chose that inopportune moment to obliterate my sight and I was forced to draw to an abrupt halt, or else risk staggering blindly to my death.

Now that I was still, the chill of the night descended upon me in full force and moving from foot to foot did little except increase my urge to continue the pursuit.

I readily admit that Watson possesses far more patience than I; his absence from my side is strangely disconcerting...he had been wounded by Stapleton as he had fled, but the wound had seemed to my not-inexperienced eye debilitating, but not life-threatening. A small smile lifted my lips at the thought of how Watson had all but thrown his revolver at me and told me to_ 'get after him man!'_

...He would pull through; Watson always did, hardy fellow that he was.

I kept a keen eye out, and the instant the fog began to clear, I was off once more. It could not have been more than three minutes that I was out of action, but those may have proved sufficient for I could be sure Stapleton had not been idle.

I noticed the wands that Lady Beryl had told me of, placed by Stapleton to mark a safe path across the mire, and was sure to keep to it even as it occurred to me they would have been near invisible in the thick fog; perhaps Stapleton had...

The thought had barely formed in my mind when I heard screams of: "Help! For God's sake, _help_ me!"

Stapleton. His cries echoed across the mire, distorted: _"Help...sake...me...help..."_

It was as if (and Watson will no doubt needle me, as I have him on countless occasions, about 'flowery detail') the mire itself was taunting him for trying to overcome it.

I followed the path until I came to him; it seemed he had lost his way in the fog and stumbled into the morass.

Already, Stapleton was chest deep and sinking. I considered him for a moment before pulling off my jacket and, grasping it by one sleeve, cast it in his direction - there had never really been a choice to make; I could no more do nothing and watch him drown than Mrs Hudson could cook a breakfast that was not up to par.

Stapleton grabbed ahold of the jacket with the tenacity with which dying men hold on to life, and I, with no little effort, managed to free him from the clutches of the mire.

He lay upon the comparatively firm ground, bearing a striking resemblance to a landed fish in both his gasping and looks.

Suddenly, I heard the faint sound of Watson's voice, calling - evidently he had ignored his wound with the stubbornness that seemed to be as much a part of him as his moustache.

What a desperate creature man becomes when cornered. For a split-second my attention had wavered as I called to Watson of the path, and in that moment Stapleton gave me a tremendous shove that sent me off (comparatively) firm ground, almost over-balancing himself as he did so. I had just a moment in which to absorb the irony of the thing, before I felt the full force of the Grimpen Mire endeavouring to claim me as one of its countless victims.

I could still hear Watson and although his voice sounded distant, I knew that did not mean anything on the moor, where shadows and sounds were easily distorted.

I was sinking, more rapidly than I had anticipated, but I managed to smother the panic and tried to distribute my weight evenly.

Stapleton moved directly into my line of sight, settling himself on a rock as if it were a chair and we were in attendance at some grotesque social event.

"Well, Mr Holmes, I see that you know better than to struggle but I'm afraid that will do you no good; merely prolong your torment. I've seen so many moor ponies die like this."

As he talked, he drew his gun out from inside his jacket. It was galling to be at the mercy of such a fiend.

"I took the precaution of saving a single bullet for the eventuality of a confrontation. I suppose the kindest thing to do would be to put you out of your misery."

He raised the gun in one fluid movement.

I stared down the barrel of the gun, helpless, and expected death.

A click sounded, yet the anticipated bullet did not arrive and I cannot say that I was disappointed; unsurprisingly, after being submerged in the mire, the gun's functioning capacity had not improved.

With his usual impeccable timing, Watson found us. Training his gun upon the now unarmed Stapleton, he picked up my discarded jacket and heaved it toward me.

Ever the crackshot, it landed exactly before me and as soon as I had grasped it, Watson began to attempt to pull me out.

But one-handed it was an impossible feat and by now I was struggling to keep my chin above the morass.

Watson's eyes grazed mine and I knew his thoughts as surely as if they were my own; he would have to let Stapleton escape if he were to save me.

The naturalist too realised the situation and turned to make good his escape but Watson had reached a conclusion and twisting around, shot him in the leg - his rigid sense of honour would never allow him to shoot dead an unarmed man, no matter what his crime.

Stapleton collapsed to the ground with a strangled cry, and Watson stowed his gun back into his coat, gripping my jacket tightly with both hands and heaving, stoically ignoring his wounded arm.

I shall never forget the brief moment for which I submerged completely, suffocating and choked as the mire rushed into my mouth and an icy blackness squeezed the breath from my body.

I can only thank God that my own grip and that of my dearest friend Watson were unyielding upon that much-worn jacket. And of course, that the jacket itself had not split down the seams.

I felt a tremendous force on my arms and was heaved back into the beautiful fresh air. The mire, it seemed, would not relinquish its prey easily but it had not reckoned with the full force of a certain Dr John H. Watson.

With a growl not unlike that of an angry bear, said man managed to pull me close enough to firmer ground that I could scramble the last few feet on my elbows.

Watson was kneeling, still gripping onto the jacket as he glanced at me once as if to assure himself, ever the physician, that I was in one piece, before collapsing onto his back with a heavy sigh.

"Three cheers for Saville Row," I managed, and was rewarded by a bark of unsteady laughter from the prone doctor.

I made to follow suit, rolling off my elbows before catching myself as realisation struck.

"Watson! Where is Stapleton?"

The kind, usually mild-mannered doctor muttered something unflattering beneath his breath, before adding in a louder voice, "He can't have gone far with th - " He was cut off by a sharp, incoherent cry that rang out across the moor, that tapered off into a muffled gargle and an empty silence.

Despite our best efforts, we could find no trace of Stapleton at the place where the sounds seemed to have issued from.

We stood still and quiet for a moment among the deceptively calm mire and then Watson shivered and thrust my sodden jacket into my arms.

"Come, Holmes. The others will no doubt be awaiting news at Baskerville Hall. I do hope Sir Henry is alright."

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** Let me know what you think!**

**~ Qalam**


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